On the morning of Spring Seven I made a comment, ‘Man, gods just make no sense.’

This statement was in the poorest of tastes, and I deeply apologize for this ill-considered attempt at humor. I have disrespected the one true God of Fire with this callow comparison and commit to being better.

Okay? Okay.

Let’s just move on to the news.

Spring 11 (evening)

Saturday rush, hectic as ever. Oliver hired borough kids to ferry the food and clean the tables while he worked double time at the bar. The ice cream machine was a temperamental lass, equal parts profitable novelty and pain in his arse, and he refused to let anyone else operate it. Last year, he’d let a temp run one smoothie. One!

There were still stains on the ceiling.

He always saved the last shake for himself, just reward for surviving until the rush ebbed around eighth bell. Satisfied with their burgers, his patrons dispersed for the vices of the night, and he flexed his fingers around his cup.

Lately, a hard shift left an ache in his knuckles. No big deal, right? He’d pop his knuckles a couple times and let it fade.

Except these days the ache settled in for the night half the time…

He tried not to contemplate it.

Finished with their portion, his temporary helpers stopped by for their pay. Laden with cash, they made sure to depart as a group.

Strength in numbers.

Sevensborough wasn’t the kind of place a man flaunted his fresh paycheck. Not if he wanted to keep it.

Truthfully, the borough was a tenuous alliance of five different factions, all leaning against each other like the old boards of a lean-to.

Northwest: Tempestville. Northeast: disgraced Aurens. Central: Main Street putting on a front of civility. South: village of the brats. East: the little Jungle.

Each with their own illicit industries and eccentricities.

All his responsibility.

Finishing his drink, he ushered the last patrons out the door, untied his apron, and knocked on the kitchen wall several times. “Later, Jimmy!”

His cook felt the thump and pounded back twice in affirmation.

Leaving Jimmy to close the kitchen, he flipped the sign to closed, turned on the radio, and picked up a rag to clean all the bits the kids missed. His favorite radio jockey put on the songs, and he hummed along.

From the corner and his diner, he could pretend the borough was a proper home.

Then a middle-aged mouse of a woman with an Azure scarf wrapped across her shoulders tapped two fingers on the window.

“Huh. The Wavespeaker herself. What could she possibly want with the mayor?” The answer leaped right to mind, and he waved her inside with a shout through the glass. “It’s unlocked!”

Entering, Belle Osh dropped a curtsy. “Good evening. I apologize for interrupting after close, but I heard that you were the person to talk to in Sevensborough…”

“Until Erudite picks someone else,” he agreed.

She tucked strands of hair behind her ear; then plucked three times at her waistband; then forced her hands against her dress.

“I have seen you at Conclave,” she admitted.

“They pull me in to complain about whatever has a bee in their bonnet that week.”

Belle grimaced. “Me too.”

It isn’t right, I know. We’re just the designated targets.

As a bartender, he slid his hands over the chrome counter. “Why don’t you grab a stool? I haven’t closed everything.”

He rather doubted Oliver the harried mayor would have a solution to any actual problems, so why not take a bite instead?

Still more useful than Oliver the washed-up Inventor.

And all a league above Oliver the callow youth that watched helplessly as Lumia burned.

“I-I hope I do not intrude,” she said, accepting the seat.

“Nah, I get stragglers all the time,” he dismissed – omitting that he usually kicked them out. “Kitchen’s closing, but I can mix you anything cold you want.”

“A stiff drink for courage?” she joked.

“Sure thing!” Ignoring her protests, he opened a hatch in the floor and withdrew a bottle of whiskey. “If anyone asks, this is varnish.”

We’re a dry borough, you know.

Setting out the cup, he assessed her build. Slim, thin, short, worn. He served up a cup light on the liquor and heavy on the cream.

“Now I have discovered…” He fetched a second cup. “…that no one should drink alone.”

Another lesson from Lumia: there were a lot of ways for a man to self-destruct.

A lot of places for a man to bury the memories: like at the bottom of a cup.

Til the day you wake up choking on your own vomit. Coughing, hacking, and only when you’ve heaved your guts into the sink do you wonder, ‘What if I hadn’t woken up in time? Would I have gone out like grandpa?’

Now Oliver only drank with company, pacing cup for cup with the lightest drinker.

The Wavespeaker stared into the cup for a moment. “Why not, I guess?”

She kicked it back in a shot.

“Woah!” This mouse has a few surprises! “It’s not a race now.”

Regardless, he held himself to a sip of his whiskey, letting it chew at his sinuses.

Jimmy knocked on the kitchen wall again, and Oliver got up to pay him.

A big, sweet man, Jimmy peered curiously at the woman at the bar. He pointed, fighting a smirk.

“Take your wages!” Oliver grumbled. “And go easy on the snacks this time!”

Jimmy accepted the money, bobbing his head three times. Always three nods for greeting and three for goodbye; five beats to warm up the kitchen; a lick and touch for every order receipt on the pin.

As best as Oliver could tell, simple counting was how Jimmy made sense of the world.

“You should take an escort home today,” the mayor instructed.

Jimmy shook his head, pointing again at Belle.

“He’s deaf, so look directly at him when you talk,” Oliver whispered.

Nodding, Belle sat back and smiled for Jimmy. “Please do not worry for me. I have an entourage.”

The cook blinked, mouthing en-tou-rage.

“My friends are waiting outside,” she explained.

Oliver observed; he learned a lot about people from how they treated Jimmy.

“Are you the one who cooks all the food? All by yourself?” Belle asked. She enunciated carefully, letting the cook process at his own speed.

Jimmy grinned.

She’s alright, he decided. She isn’t asking him to be more than he can be.

Despite being nearly as old as Oliver, Jimmy struggled with reading, writing, vocabulary, and any math more complicated than counting. The mayor had given his best shot to teach the cook to no avail.

Thea would have a better diagnosis. All I can say is that Jimmy is a simple guy: he likes an orderly kitchen, the same two meals every single day, and counting to twenty-two before he puts on his shoes.

“Escort,” Oliver insisted.

The cook grunted in annoyance.

Oliver glared.

Sighing, Jimmy nodded.

“Good. Straight home to mom, okay?”

A quick chirp of agreement floated in from the kitchen.

The mayor saw Jimmy to the door and watched until the cook fell out of sight to the west. Then he nodded to the men on Belle’s wagon at the bend and returned inside.

“You pay him well,” Belle remarked.

“His mother used to work the Thirdborough textiles, but she’s taken ill.”

“Thirdborough? That’s a long commute!”

“Not always a lot of choice, you know?” The mayor shrugged. “I shouldn’t lecture you about choice. You were there. With Lynne.”

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“I was,” she admitted softly.

We are pets for angels. Did you find a reward worth the collar? Do you dream Lynne’s dreams like I dream Mirielle’s?

The silence dragged between them.

“I’m sorry,” Oliver sighed. He accepted the Wavespeaker’s empty cup and asked, “You’re here for Valkyrie?”

As though her daughter’s name invoked a spell, Belle straightened. “So she is here.”

“Your daughter’s in a real pickle. House Mishkan has a couple lawyers sniffing on the matter. The law on the rite of adulthood and its absolution is old but well-settled. Unfortunately, we face two problems with it.” He ticked on his fingers. “First, if the constables can get a hand on Valkyrie, they can throw her in a cell and let the day pass. There’s no redress for tardiness here. Second, she has to perform the rite of absolution in public, and that means a prime opportunity for our club-happy friends.”

The Wavespeaker grimaced. “This matter is too public. The usual bribes will not suffice.”

Oliver winced behind the brim of his cup. The usual bribes are the oil that keeps Sevensborough chugging.

“I guess we have that in common,” he admitted.

“I would like to see my daughter,” the Wavespeaker stated, palms against her belly.

“Constables ransacked your apartment yet?”

Her fingers twitched. “No, but they watch.”

“When Valkyrie came knocking, we…” Here he paused. Did Belle know Lady Mishkan, the Tempest, or the woman behind both? How much did she know of souls and angels? “…we set her up in a safe retreat to weather the storm.”

“To weather the storm? The Tempest can carry her to Waves!”

“If required,” he evaded, “but her presence in Waves will be de facto guilt for both her and you. We’re trying to do what’s best for you both.”

Belle slapped the counter. “You don’t get to decide what is best for us!”

His eyes fell to her waist and the hen-plucked forest of strands, and his heart ached with sudden sympathy. She is trying so damn hard.

“Okay. You’re right.” He grabbed a napkin and a pen. “Let’s lay it out.”

Constables – warrant issued

Valkyrie – easily identified

Waves – presumption of guilt

Spring birthday – use Aure’s laws against them

Now Oliver hesitated, reluctant to mention the possibility of Mirielle…

Belle stared into the napkin, lips pressed to a thin line, as though the paper would unfold into the secrets of the Chorus.

Hells. If she was my daughter, I’d want the bad news, right? I hate all this occult stuff.

“There’s another problem,” he admitted.

Under her breath, Belle muttered, “There always is with her. Maybe if Louise had survived…”

Oliver smothered a sudden urge to reach for her hand. What was wrong with him tonight? “Well, we’re not quite sure, but she stirred something of Mirielle Visage from the depths. In case you weren’t aware, Mirielle was…like Lynne…and magic of that magnitude has a way of spelling more trouble. We’re still not sure how badly it rattled the girl’s cage.”

The Wavespeaker arched an eyebrow. “She roused a god.”

He coughed. “More or less…”

“Like mother like daughter,” she sighed, one hand drifting to play with an Azure pendant under her shawl.

“You stood with Lynne. You know the vertigo that accompanies power’s wake.”

“My life was reshaped by such a passing wake.”

Angel-stamped, thrown adrift, left standing in the rubble. “Left running the bilge pumps, right?”

They shared a smile, one janitor to another.

Drinking in the arc of her neck, Oliver struggled against a sudden tension in his gut. Before he could sort it from indigestion, though, the windows rattled from a heavy wind. The pressure blew straight inside, jolting all his arm hairs to attention, and he jumped to his feet.

Alisandra let herself into the diner a moment later, stifling an exasperated sigh. She wore southern skirts, her shoulders and feet bare.

Seeing two instead of one, she paused in surprise. “Oliver. And Belle? My apologies if I intrude.”

Belle bounced to her feet and curtsied again. “Lady Mishkan. A pleasure as always.”

A well-worn curtsy and no shock at the attire? Then she knows both faces. That’s something, but does she know about angels and gods? Irritation chewed his soles. If we’re all in this together, Ali, you could have introduced us at some point, you know!

“I fear I must be brief,” the Archangel sighed. “The past few days have been hectic.”

She locked the door, took a seat, and related the situation found in Iris over the last few days.

“Please inform any contacts you have with Erudite or the street,” she requested. “While we cannot guarantee other scales produce the same symptoms, we must increase our vigilance.”

“Too bad we don’t have any angels with powers of prognostication and perception,” Oliver drawled.

“If Sebastian did not see, he did not see,” Alisandra countered firmly.

“If the slumbering Wyrm is beyond his sight, we’re in trouble.”

Belle frowned, left behind.

Alisandra glanced at the diner’s clock and swore. “I cannot tarry. I must change before tonight’s meeting.” She shook her head. “House Tumult has threatened to defect on the votes, and so I go to ply them with gifts until they see reason.”

The Archangel spun to her feet.

Gasping, Belle leaped after her. “T-Tempest! My daughter!”

Alisandra paused. “Yes? Ah, while we are here. Belle, what does Valkyrie dream of?”

“Her…dreams? W-well, she wanted to be a sylph when she was younger…”

“Does she speak in her sleep? Do her dreams have a way of coming true?”

“I’m sorry, Holy – I mean, Lady Mishkan – but Valkyrie has not told me her dreams in years now…” Belle confessed.

Oliver wanted to leap the counter and give her a hug.

“No matter.” Alisandra squeezed Belle’s arm. “When this trouble is resolved, I believe there may be a place for her in my temple.”

Belle shied from the touch. “Her place is with me.”

Watching the clock, Alisandra brushed the complaint away. “When her soul is settled.”

Like a Queen dismissing a poor suitor.

The Wavespeaker wilted. “Yes…Holy Tempest…”

“My apologies,” Alisandra nodded, hurrying for the door and the open sky. A bolt of thunder saw her away to Mel, a change of clothes, and a night of politicking.

In her wake, Oliver cleared his throat. “She’s always busy with Spring. This business with scales growing together is clearly worrying her.”

Hells, Ali, did you have to swat her down like a fly?

Chin low, Belle plucked at her waist. “The Tempest has spoken…”

“Hey. Its only for the Spring, right?” he tried to reassure. “Here’s an idea. Why don’t you write her? I’m already the borough gopher, so one more letter won’t hurt.”

“T-thank you,” she mumbled. “I should be going.”

“Are you sure? Sevensborough after dark…”

“My escort is just outside.”

The Wavespeaker offered a rushed curtsy and fled the diner.

“Well, that’s enough excitement for tonight,” the mayor grumbled.

Time to take out the trash.

***

The angel of Witness encountered Oliver twenty-five minutes later. The mayor hauled a wheelbarrow of restaurant trash for the dump in Sixborough, avoiding potholes through a dark alley by memory.

“Good evening, Oliver,” Sebastian called, approaching towards Sevensborough with the last of the day’s mail.

Oliver drew short. “Sebastian? Don’t you have places to be?”

“What sorts of places?” the angel asked mildly.

“Helping Ali with the madness in Mel? Or how about leading us to black scales?”

“The Archangel has not requested my assistance.”

Oliver bit back a curse and shoved the wheelbarrow along harder. Approaching, he stated, “If you won’t help, at least get out of the way.”

Sebastian stepped aside, leaving clearance for Oliver and his cargo between the potholes.

Passing the angel, Oliver changed his mind and stopped. “Actually, I have a question.”

“Speak.”

“Alisandra carries the Tempest, and you deliver the mail. Why?”

Why are you hiding from the world?

“As ever, we must consider the unstated axioms to deconstruct an argument. First, the assumption that Alisandra ‘carries’ the Tempest.”

“What else do you call it?”

“Containment.” Mortals looked for bindings in sacred caves and strange rites, but such arts came in every shape. “What is the Tempest but love and fury? Seeds we all carry. If such a confluence must exist, then where shall it rest?”

“Who in the icy hells said it must exist?”

“Lynne.”

Oliver winced. “Sins of the mother? Screw it – drop the Tempest into the sea.”

“A nexus once forged is not so easily dispersed. We angels reshape the cosmos with our presence. With our passage.”

“People worship her, Sebastian! They pray to her!”

“The Tempest is the known terror. Her temperament and predilections are known. In well-rehearsed ritual, there is hope to be spared.”

That the eye of the storm would leave one unscathed.

“I don’t think the world needs the damned Tempest.”

“Then by what measure shall you counter the Wyrm? What story shall mankind tell to fence off the dark?”

Evolutionary narratives. Men in bars offered every explanation that could be found; the most appealing to the crowd were spread the fastest and the least appealing ignored. The leaders of the pack rose to the attention of louder voices – Church and radio in this time and country – and those voices chose among the banquet to suit themselves.

Thus rumors became facts, and the runner-ups kept the conspiracy theorists employed.

“Archangel was enough fifteen years ago!”

The angel of Witness motioned for Oliver them to walk together. He laid a hand on the tip of the wheelbarrow to steer it around the worst divots on their path. “Suppose instead that the Archangel wields that name instead. Indeed, consider the matter of names.”

“I doubt you were born ‘Sebastian’, but you seem to manage well enough.”

“A mortal name for a mortal seeming. By what boundary do I craft this flesh I wear? Why not the beast or even a vapor on the wind?”

“The boundary…” the mayor mused. “The boundary of your being?”

“Precisely!” Sebastian smiled, always pleased with a quick student. “Our flesh might be young or old, light or dark, fair or foul. How are we to yolk ourselves? Around what shall our stars orbit?”

Names and titles, drawing lines.

Beings of infinity, forced to bind themselves before the madness of possibility.

“In a name worn well, we harmonize Will.”

Oliver navigated a turn in the alley before responding.

“So what you are implying…is that Ali is a better Tempest than she is Archangel.”

“She was born to this world. As was the Tempest. The Archangel is an artifact of Eden.”

As was that halo of war and the Hand of God itself, but Sebastian set aside that discussion. Such factoids would only cloud Oliver’s thoughts.

“Were she to walk the world as Archangel, or angel of Valor, or naked Power and Principality, the world would face a new threat. Her origins unknown. Her desires unknown. Nations rise and fall before such crises.”

Oliver sighed. “Tolerate the stink for diplomatic stability. Is that the best we have?”

“You do the same with Sevensborough, do you not?”

“Doesn’t mean I like it.”

“Do you believe that the Archangel enjoys the performance?”

“Not a bit!” the mayor barked.

“Do you believe she is a better administrator than the priesthood?”

“Definitely.”

“Then which would you call the greater good: her relief or the safety of this star?”

They reached one of the narrow bridges out of the borough. Across the creek, proper street lamps offered illumination enough for the rest of his journey.

“You favor impossible quandaries, don’t you? Why can’t I care for my friend and the world both?”

“Only impossible because you attempt to hold both at equal measure. Which is the greater? The needs of the one or the many?”

The mayor shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d ask God, but He doesn’t seem keen to talk.”

“Unfortunately, Aure has long since departed this sphere. He too faced the naming, and he chose to abandon that epithet rather than join the ranks of the Covenant.”

“The real one, angel.”

Sebastian shook his head somberly. “I am afraid that such questions will go unanswered for a great deal longer.”

Oliver almost asked how long. His lips formed the first word.

But he flinched from the dread that he would receive an answer.

The burden of walking a well-worn rut.

Instead, he asked, “Just what did the Wyrm do to you, Sebastian?”

“I attempted to bind him with arts of Eden, but I was not strong enough. I am a shadow of my glory, and the Wyrm basks in his. In his whim, he retaliated with a vision suited for my eyes: the straight line of Time.”

Creation – as viewed looking back from the end.

Every choice carved into its stone.

“I never took you for a determinist,” Oliver joked.

Here I thought souls were transcendent

“Perhaps a slightly more nuanced form,” the angel admitted.

Sebastian still saw the Song, offering every choice, but now he saw the one that was taken. Saw its why, and knew its why to conform to the bias of its holder, and its holder to emerge from its history, and that history from its circumstances, stretching back unbroken to the moment when the Black Gate sundered above and below.

Even infinite souls performed as they were trained.

Even him. Slave to his own devotion, he could not force himself to step from this path. Not when he measured the cost in millions of lives lost; billions of lives thrown into suffering; only in this singular thread did mankind find peace in Malkuth in the era before the end.

“Then why did you choose to deliver the mail?”

“Because I might deliver the correct letter to a person in need; delay the missive meant for evil deeds; and thus shape the world.”

Sebastian ached for Oliver to ask another question. Or to lose his patience and deck the angel.

Ached for the surprises that never came.

“Just make sure you’re delivering the letters for the good people, Sebastian,” the mayor shrugged, ready to continue his chore.

“Yes. Speaking of, you will be required at the aldersman’s council in twenty-three minutes.”

Oliver almost dropped the wheelbarrow. “What?!”

“Please do not be late. A young man’s life depends on you.”

“Hells! See to the trash, would you?!”

“Of course.”

As the mayor sprinted away, the angel steered the wagon towards the northern dump point instead. After all, he still needed to drop a particular letter in the Woodhaven loft for Valkyrie to happen upon later.

Then insult a young boy just outside the Woodhaven complex so that the youth might remember his distaste for nobility – and their property – in a few weeks.

Then waylay a young constable, sharp with the fervor of a new badge, before the man spied Valkyrie mooning on the loft balcony…

As a little game, Sebastian closed his eyes and walked on by the straight line of Time.

Praying that – if God was merciful – he might trip.